The morning after, Pete woke tangled in sheets that smelled faintly of Vegas—cigarette smoke, leather, and something darker he couldn't name. His wrists ached from the chains, his body still buzzing from Vegas' relentless claim the night before. Every muscle, every nerve, every inch of him remembered.
He tried to push the memory away. Tried to tell himself it was just Vegas being cruel, dangerous, reckless—but the truth cut sharper than any knife. He wanted Vegas. He wanted the heat, the fire, the dominance, the chaos, and the moments that left him gasping and trembling.
Vegas, of course, had no intention of letting him forget.
"You're up," a rough voice called from the doorway. Vegas leaned casually against the frame, smirk wide, eyes dark, predatory. "Good. I was starting to think you'd run… but you didn't."
Pete stiffened, trying to pull himself together. "I—"
"Don't," Vegas cut him off, walking closer, each step deliberate, teasing, dangerous. "No words. Actions. Feelings. That's how this works between us, pet. You're mine… body, mind, and soul. Don't argue."
Pete swallowed, chest tight. Every instinct screamed to resist, but every fiber of him longed to submit, to be consumed. Vegas had ignited a fire inside him, one that refused to be extinguished.
"You still remember last night, don't you?" Vegas purred, circling him like a predator. "Every touch, every bite, every moment? You're shaking, pet. You loved it, didn't you?"
Pete's cheeks flushed, eyes wide. "I… I don't…"
Vegas smirked, brushing a hand down Pete's chest, deliberately slow, teasing, punishing. "Don't lie. I can feel it. Every tremble, every gasp… mine."
The day stretched long, tension simmering. Pete moved through the estate like a shadow, aware of every glance Vegas threw, every smirk, every subtle touch—sometimes accidental, sometimes deliberate, always a reminder of last night. He couldn't escape Vegas, and he didn't want to.
Even meals weren't safe. Vegas leaned too close, a hand brushing Pete's arm, a knee pressing against his leg, smirking at the flush creeping up Pete's neck. "You're obsessed already, pet," he murmured, voice low, rough, teasing. "You hate it. And you love it. Admit it."
Pete clenched his fists under the table, heart hammering. "I… I'm not—"
Vegas leaned closer, lips near Pete's ear, whispering, "Shhh… no words. Only surrender. Only fire."
And that was the truth. Pete hated it, loved it, feared it, craved it—all at once. Vegas' dominance wasn't just physical—it was mental, emotional, and dangerous. Vegas had claimed him in ways no one ever had.
When night fell, Vegas found him again. Chains weren't needed this time; the memory of them, the fire between them, the pull of Vegas' dangerous charisma, was enough. Pete's heart raced as Vegas pressed close, hands firm on his shoulders, lips brushing his ear.
"You're mine," Vegas murmured, voice low, dangerous. "Never forget it. Not now, not tomorrow, not ever. And tonight… we take it further."
Pete's breath hitched, chest tightening with anticipation, fear, and desire. He knew he couldn't escape. He didn't want to. Vegas Montclair had consumed him completely.
And he was burning for it.